“And we’ll be trapped between”—Charles looked at Logan—“sixteen or more? Those are not odds I like.”
“Nor I,” Logan said, “but that’s how the cult operates. They smother opponents—overwhelming odds to ensure victory. Ferrar has no consideration for how many he loses, and many cultists have absorbed so much of the religious zeal Ferrar has fostered that they view death in the service of the Black Cobra as imparting some sort of glory.”
“In that case,” Deverell said, leaning on the table and studying the map, “we need to break up the group behind us, or step sideways out of their trap.”
“Or both,” Charles said. “The question is how.”
They evaluated the various roads they might take.
“The problem,” Logan said, “is that if we take any of these roads to Bath, in the carriage we’re going to be slower than a rider from the pack behind us seeing our direction, riding hell for leather to Bristol, meeting up with the welcome committee there, and redirecting them to Bath. They’ll be able to reach Bath, and even come southeast to meet us as we drive in. We’ll be no better off, and might even be in worse, less frequented terrain.”
They all stared at the map. “That means,” Deverell eventually said, “that regardless of all else, the best route for us to take to Bath is the one that’s quickest from the moment we turn off the Bristol road.” He traced a route. “This one—we turn off at Upper Langford, then go via Blagdon, Compton Martin, Bishop Sutton and Chelwood to Marksbury, and so to Bath. For us, that’s the fastest way.”
Logan grimaced. “They’re still going to reach Bath well ahead of us.”
Linnet tapped a finger on the map. “Not if they don’t see which way we go.” She glanced up at the three men. When they all simply waited, she half smiled and looked down. “Here—just past this hamlet called Star. There’s a bend in the road, and then half a mile further on, Upper Langford and the turnoff we want. And while it’s difficult to stage an attack from the rear, we’re in front.
We
can attack
them
. And if we do, and cause sufficient panic and mayhem, just after Star and just before this bend, then we can be on and around the bend, down the road to Blagdon and out of sight, before they catch up enough to see us turn.”
Deverell was studying the map closely. “They’ll realize we’ve turned, but they won’t know to where. Just past that bend there are roads to Cheddar, Weston-Sur-Mare, Congresbury, as well as the one we want to take.”
“They’ll spend time casting about, trying to find which way we’ve gone.” Linnet looked at Logan. “It might not delay them long, but it will gain us some time, perhaps enough to beat them into Bath.”
Logan nodded. “That’s our best plan so far.”
Charles straightened. “The only alternative is to kill all those following us, and as they’re all on horseback, it’s too likely one of them at least will flee and ride on, so that’s not a viable option.”
Deverell nodded. “I vote for Linnet’s plan.”
“And me.” Logan nodded at her.
Charles grinned and swept her a bow. “Indeed. And I’ve got just the thing to ensure sufficient panic and mayhem to get away unseen.”
W
hen their carriage rattled out of the Monmouth Arms yard, only Logan and Linnet were inside the vehicle. Charles and Deverell were stretched out on the roof, with two primed rifles each. Logan and Linnet each had one rifle and two pistols. The pistols were unlikely to have much chance of hitting any cultists, but the shots would add to the confusion.
David, who’d looked thoroughly thrilled when told the plan, took his time settling in his new team, galloping them along the straighter stretches, then reining them in, trotting through the small towns, before settling to a steady, but rapid, pace.
According to Charles, who reported via the open hatch, the changes in pace alone caused uncertainty in their pursuers’ ranks.
Not that they stopped pursuing.
Linnet had claimed the map. She continued consulting it as they swept on. Deverell, Charles, and Logan had agreed that the welcome party from Bristol would be waiting to ambush them along a particularly empty and desolate stretch between two villages. Luckily that stretch was at least three miles further on from where they planned to turn off.
The carriage slowed, and she looked out, saw a signpost. “That’s Sidcot.” She checked her map, then called to the two above. “Star’s about a half mile on.”
Setting aside the map, she undid the ties of her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders. She’d left her cutlass in the carriage when she’d gone into the inn, but had promptly buckled it on again as they’d left Bridgwater. Although their plan didn’t involve any face-to-face combat, she preferred to be prepared. Standing, she resettled the belt about her hips, then looked at the crate Charles had left on the opposite seat.
She studied the glass bottles wicked with rag that lay nestled in crumpled paper inside the crate. “Do you think these will actually work?”
Logan glanced at the bottles. “I’ve seen far less professional incendiaries work brilliantly.”
“Star coming up.” David’s voice drifted down from above.
David followed the pattern he’d established when driving through smaller towns, slowing to bowl smoothly through, then whipping up his horses the moment the last cottages fell behind.
He drove on for several hundred yards, then abruptly slowed the carriage to a grinding halt.
The cultists, by then clear of the hamlet, at first came on at their accustomed gallop, then, realizing the carriage had halted, they slowed, confused . . . yet still closing the distance.
“Now!” Charles called, and both he and Deverell opened fire.
On the heels of their first volley, Logan and Linnet swung open the carriage doors, and, one foot on the carriage’s steps, took aim and fired. They pulled back into the carriage as the second volley sounded from above.
Logan dropped the rifle he’d used, grabbed the tinderbox he’d left ready.
Linnet lifted one of the bottles from its packing and held it for him.
He lit the wick, seized the bottle, and passed it up through the hatch to waiting hands. Immediately lit a second and passed that up, too.
The carriage rocked as Charles and Deverell stood. Logan imagined them waiting, then the carriage swayed as they threw the small flame bombs.
“Go!”
David had the carriage rolling when Charles and Deverell dropped to the roof.
Just as the bombs hit.
Logan and Linnet hung out of the carriage windows, and saw a scene of carnage and confusion, of cultists lying on the ground, some clutching wounds and wailing, of horses milling. The bombs had landed, as intended, just in front of the cultists. Flames had whooshed and flared—the pervading damp would soon have them out, but the show was enough to have the cultists’ mounts panicking, pulling free if they could and galloping away.
As the carriage started around the bend, the flames died and smoke rose in billowing waves, engulfing the cutlists, setting them coughing and choking.
The carriage rounded the bend, their horses racing on as David drove hard for their chosen road.
They reached it and turned off toward Bath.
The carriage rattled wildly along the lesser road, helpfully lined with high, unclipped hawthorn hedges. David slowed a trifle as they passed through another hamlet. Once they were bowling along again, Charles called down, “None of them got to the bend before we turned. We’ve lost them, at least for the moment.”
They busied themselves tidying away the rest of the incendiaries, the rifles and pistols. At the next hamlet, David halted long enough for Charles and Deverell to climb down and return to their seats inside the carriage.
“It’s damned cold out there.” Charles stamped his feet, blew on his hands. “But at least we’ve made some impact.”
“We’ve done our duty,” Deverell affirmed, “at least for the moment.”
They all settled back, drew their cloaks closer. Linnet looked out of the window, thought back through the recent engagement.
Reduce numbers, avoid being overwhelmed.
That, apparently, was to be the catchcry of their mission.
T
he best-laid plans of mice and men were, sadly, subject to the whim of the gods.
The gods’ minions, in this instance, were sheep. Lots of them. The carriage was forced to a halt just beyond the tiny town of Compton Martin by a large flock being moved to winter pastures. There was nothing for it but to wait for the bleating mob to file slowly past.
When the road was finally clear, David whipped up his horses—only to have to rein them to a halt again just past West Harptree, then again near Sutton Wick.
“It’s like a damned organized migration,” Charles muttered.
By the time they reached Marksbury and headed toward Bath on the last stretch of their day’s journey, although no one said anything, they were all tense and watchful. What advantage they’d gained by their inventive action near Star had been well and truly eaten away by the sheep.
There was every chance the Black Cobra’s men had reached Bath by now; they might even be lurking along the road into town.
Dusk fell, and the shadows thickened. Their tension racked steadily higher the closer they got to the famous spa town; Logan knew little about it beyond its famous waters. They each sat back from their windows, watching, scanning, searching for any telltale black scarves.
That they rattled into the town center without spotting one didn’t materially ease Logan’s concern. The more deadly variety of cultist, the assassins, loomed high in his mind.
David, under orders to drive unremarkably so as to draw no especial attention to their vehicle, eventually halted the carriage outside their chosen hotel, The York House. Streetlamps had been lit, bathing the wide pavement before the hotel in warm welcome. With the hour edging toward dinnertime, there was not a great deal of other traffic about.
After all Logan’s worrying, it felt anticlimactic to step down from the carriage, hand Linnet down, and find an august, liveried doorman waiting to bow them in.
“Logan.”
He turned to see Charles beckoning. His hand on Linnet’s back, he urged her on. “Go in—we’ll follow.”
Leaving her to the deferential care of the doorman, Logan returned to assist Charles and Deverell in packing the rifles and their other weapons, and hiding the remaining incendiaries while handing their personal bags to the footmen who swarmed out to help.
Brows arched, Linnet watched, saw, then consented to turn and follow the doorman across the wide pavement to the front door. She’d heard of The York House. It had long been the favored haunt of visiting nobility. Running an eye over the elegant façade, she cynically smiled, imagining telling Jen and Gilly—and Muriel and Buttons, too—that she’d stayed there. At least, thanks to Penny and Phoebe, her wardrobe would pass muster.
The doorman had stridden ahead to pull open and hold the heavy brass, etched glass, and polished wood front door, bowing her regally through. Lips curving more definitely, she glided toward the doorway—
Heard the telltale sing of an arrow.
Instinctively she ducked, curling herself into a smaller target, then looking around. The doorman froze, eyes widening, then he whisked around the open door, taking cover behind the thick panel.
With a gasp and a clatter, the footman who’d been following Linnet with her bag hit the ground. Eyes wide with shock, he clutched one arm from which a crossbow quarrel protruded.
She didn’t think, just acted. She’d been in too many battles to panic, was too much a leader not to immediately take charge.
Moving swiftly in a halfcrouch, she turned back, grabbed her bag in one hand, the footman’s uninjured arm in the other, and hauled him to his feet—thanking her stars he wasn’t taller or all that much heavier than she. As more arrows rained down, using the bag to cover their backs, she propelled him through the still open front door.
Halting in the hall, she let the footman go. He collapsed to the tiles. She turned back to the door, taking cover just inside to look out.
The doorman picked his moment between showers of arrows and rushed in. Shaken out of his rigid control, he nevertheless called for help for his footman, gave orders for others to man the windows, then came to stand behind Linnet, peering past her shoulder as she surveyed the scene.
“No one else is down,” she murmured, for herself as much as the doorman. Logan had been in the carriage, but must have jumped down and been on his way to help her when she’d acted and got herself out of danger. He’d taken cover behind the open carriage door on this side, protected to some extent by the bulk of the carriage. Deverell had been inside and still was. He was working frantically. As she watched, he passed Logan one rifle, then another.
Logan looked toward the rear of the carriage. Called to Charles, who reached around and took the rifle, then returned to his position at the far rear corner of the carriage.
The arrows were still coming in unpredictable fits and starts. They seemed to be coming from the top of a building a little way down the street. Linnet could see all the footmen now huddled in a group at the carriage’s rear, looking longingly at the front door. But David—where was he? He’d been on the box in full view of the enemy. Had he been hit? Was he even now dying?